Paint Away The Sadness
by FanficFixation
Summary: Steve cant help but feel lost and secluded as he tries to adjust to the modern world. He thought he had reached an empty point in his life, until he found something to occupy his mind.
1. Chapter 1

**Authors Note**

I've wanted to write a short fic about Steve for a while now, I don't think there are enough fics out there about his artistic talent. I've only written this short chapter, if people like it I will continue writing it so don't forget to leave feedback and let me know what you think, I hope you enjoy it.

**Paint Away The Sadness**

**(Chapter 1)**

Steve lay alone on a bed in his apartment, gazing up at the ceiling in deep thought. The room around him seemed almost completely empty, filled with only the few belongings he owned, all of which could fit into one small suitcase. There were no fancy gadgets or gizmos; of course Stark had insisted when the room was being built that the latest devices in modern technology were a must have if the captain wanted to keep up to speed with the modern world; but Steve disagreed entirely.

He didn't want a room filled with contraptions he had no use for or couldn't understand, technology had moved on so much in the past 70 years he wasn't sure if he would ever catch up with the latest development's and discoveries. Rogers liked to keep things simple, so Stark finally gave in with trying to 'pimp' Steve's room and settled with providing a few basic pieces of equipment.

A small radio and television (which he still hadn't touched), and a few furnishings, a bed and sofa- nothing fancy. At first everyone seemed adamant with the idea of creating a 40's style room to make him feel more at ease, he politely declined the suggestion. He didn't want to live a lie, living in a fantasy world where he tried to convince himself that nothing had changed and everything was just as he remembered. Just like the fake hospital created by shield he remembered when he woke up.

It was painful to accept the future, forget the past and move on, but it was something he needed to do.

He just wasn't quite sure how.

Moving into the newly built Avengers tower after the Chitari attack a few months ago was the first step Steve took in trying to move forward with his life. Everyone seemed surprised that he had accepted the billionaire's offer of a place to stay, after all it was no secret that the two of them didn't exactly see eye to eye. But he didn't really have anywhere else to go and the thought of heading back to a small, shield issued apart alone didn't seem very appealing. He needed time to settle down and try to get use to his new environment, and Steve couldn't think of a better alternative.

The captain spent most of his time in the gym, punching away his frustrations. He'd tried to get outside and explore the sites of New York on more than one occasion, but each time found himself feeling lost and overwhelmed by the noisy chaos. The sheer volume of people was enough to make him feel dizzy and uncomfortable. Perhaps one of the busiest capitals in the world had not been the best place to start.

He spent nearly every hour of the day exercising; he had nothing else to do, not like the others.

Stark and Bruce had science to keep them busy, their minds were always buzzing with new thoughts and ideas that they could bounce off one another. The two rarely ever surfaced from the labs they were working in because they were so caught up in their latest project. Undeniably they made a great pair. Agents Barton and Romanoff were also rarely seen. Shield supplied them with an endless line of work that kept them engaged, and when they were around they spent each moment in the other's company, they had a history and clearly a strong bond between them that was impossible to break. Thor was many worlds away, no doubt concerned with Loki's punishment for his actions.

And Steve?

He had nothing.

He'd fulfilled his actions as team leader during the invasion and now Shield had no use for him, not that it surprised him. After all what use was a man out of time to anyone else?

He often questioned his decision to stay with the other Avengers at the tower. He was grateful for Starks generosity, but sometimes he felt unbelievably lonely and isolated.

The few times the Avengers socialised together, mostly watching a movie or getting dinner, Steve felt like a gate crasher at a party. It frustrated him that he was unable to join in on conversations about even the most trivial things like movies, books or even the news, so he stayed quiet, trying to take in as much information as he could. He longed for knowledge and answers but was reluctant to do so, afraid that the others would become irritated by his endless questions.

He learned that Bruce was the most approachable, calm and all too happy to explain things to him in great detail, in a simple way he could understand easily. Rogers found himself grateful for the man's patience. Clint and Natasha graced him only with quick, short answers. That only left Stark, who was of no help at all. The man joked at teased Steve to no end about his lack of education on the modern world and cracked jokes about his age and lack of intelligence compared to his own. The few times he did answer the captain could never tell if he was joking or being serious, leaving him confused and puzzled.

He felt like a nuisance.

He really wished Thor was still around. They may have nothing in common, but they both shared the same bewilderment and uncertainty for the world around them. But now Thor was gone, leaving Steve to solve the mysteries of Asgard on his own.

Everyone else was busy and Steve was just hanging around like a lost sheep, which is why he currently found himself lying motionless in his room, thinking about his new life in the modern world. After spending endless amounts of time exercising and wondering the city Steve had concluded that he had reached an empty point in his life.

He felt tired and he didn't know what to do.

Steve was fed up with feeling disorientated every morning when he awoke from a dream. Sometimes he forgot where he was, waking in a blinding panic, unaware if he was in a dream or reality.

He lay still for hours on end, thinking about the friends he left behind all those years ago. There wasn't a day that went by when he didn't think of Bucky or Peggy, wishing that next time he opened his eyes he would be back in the 1940's and this would all be a dream.

It wasn't healthy to think about it so much- he knew it, but he didn't know what else to do.

Steve needed something to do; something to occupy his mind, a hobby of some sort.

As he continued to gaze up at the ceiling, a strange feeling began to flow within him. He pictured his friends in his mind, remembering happy memories when they looked so peaceful and content. Steve was thankful for having a good memory that allowed him to remember their faces so well and every small detail.

It was at that moment when a strange sensation flowed through him, making him body tingle. As he pictured the bright, vivid colours in his mind his hand began to twitch, the feeling made his fingers itch to hold something and it grew stronger as he pictured the memories in his mind like still photographs.

Steve suddenly had the urge to do something that he hadn't thought about in over 70 years, a strong passion that had lived within him since he was a small child. He was swiftly yearning and itching to be creative, to recapture the thoughts in his mind and transfer them onto a canvas; where they would be safe forever and inerasable.

Steve Rogers had the desire to draw.


	2. Chapter 2

**Authors Note**

I received such a positive response for the short chapter I posted, that I have decided to continue writing this story rather than leave it as a one shot; so thank you all for your positive feedback. Expect this story to be updated at least once a week, apologies for the lack of dialogue; there will be more starting from the next chapter.

Enjoy : )

**Paint Away The Sadness**

**(Chapter 2)**

Bright and early Monday morning, Steve stopped by at a small arts and crafts store on the far side of the city after his morning run, with the intention of purchasing some standard art supplies. The place was completely empty when he arrived for opening, and for that he was thankful.

The thought of being hounded by fans or the press this early made him uneasy. The chances of him being recognised by a member of the public were slim, but nevertheless the chance was always there. It was moments like this he was thankful for the mask of his uniform; no many people knew the true face of captain America. Without his uniform he was just another nameless face to anyone else, wondering the streets of New York.

As he entered the small store a bell above the door rang out and he was hit instantly by the strong smell of paint. He immediately found himself completely absorbed by the scene in front of him, he was in awe. The store was filled to the brim with numerous types of paints and pencils and Steve found it impossible to pick from them all.

He felt like a small child in a sweet shop.

There was definitely a larger range of materials to choose from than he remembered and it made it difficult to come to a decision. There was no longer one type of pencil and a limited range of paints do make do with, but now there were a great many.

He spent a long time browsing the shelves, looking at a great range of supplies. The store had an endless amount of materials, inks, chalks, pastels; everything you could think of and more. There was so much to take in it made his head spin.

He would have been there for hours if it wasn't for the help of a polite female shop assistant, who helped him pick out a few basic necessities he'd need to start drawing from scratch. Eventually he had everything he required and he thanked the woman for her help before quickly heading back to the tower with a small shopping bag, eager to avoid the busy early morning rush of workers and travellers.

The brown paper bag he carried under one arm was filled with a simple set of drawing pencils, charcoals, sharpener, eraser and a small sketch pad. He thought it best to start simple and see how things turned out; after all it had been years since he last picked up a pencil to draw. He needed time to practice and familiarize himself with the art of sketching.

It didn't take long for Steve to brush up on his art skills; after all he was keen on making up for lost time.

He swiftly became so engrossed in drawing that within a week his sketch pad was filled to the brim with various outlines and studies. He sketched almost anything, starting with the view from his window and random objects around his room. At first his sketches were wobbly and unshaped, they lacked composition. However as he continued to practise his drawings became more refined, no longer just unsteady outlines; he added shading and texture and soon he became confident enough to begin pencilling people. He drew from memory, copying the faces of strangers he remembered from his run in the park, the wildlife, plants, even flowers; anything to practice on.

A few weeks on and Steve returned to the art shop, this time purchasing a wider range of apparatus. This time when he left the store the paper bag was twice as big, crammed with inks, oil paints, pastels, chalks, watercolours as well as a range of acrylic paints and just about every other material he could get his hands on. His once empty room was now bursting with blank canvases ready to fill. Brushes and pieces of paper littered every surface and a large wooden easel sat in the corner of the room by the window.

It was a wonder no one at the tower had questioned the Captains sudden absence. With no missions or meeting to attend he'd spent little time outside of his apartment, only leaving to eat and exercise. He was careful to conceal his new hobby speedily navigating the tower and back to his room before anyone caught him with his shopping, he wasn't sure he was quite ready to share his hidden talent just yet.

Rogers days were no longer filled with uneasiness and boredom. He now found himself content and occupied with an old interest. Returning to art was like welcoming an old friend, it made him feel warm and comfortable.

He quickly lost track of the days and a month later his room was littered with sketches and paintings. Most of his work was in pencil or charcoal, which was his preferred medium. He dabbled and experimented with other supplies but he always gravitated back to pencil, finding himself more comfortable with it compared to anything else, it was nostalgic and welcoming.

The more he drew, the more content he felt. As he drew the faces of the friends he left behind, slowly he felt the emptiness inside of him began to fill.

He drew to remember.

To reminisce on all the good memories of the people that were once in his life. Drawing gave him a sense of purpose, a reason to keep on going.

To Steve, art was like a kind of therapy. A new superpower that made him feel unbeatable.

He'd finally found a way to express himself and rid his mind of all the troubled thoughts and doubts that plagued him. He found himself more relaxed, enjoying the freshness and freedom art provided.

After all the practice, Steve decided he was ready to paint what lingered in his heart the most, weighing him down like a heavy stone. He picked up the large canvas he'd been saving, set it up on his easel and began to paint.

He started painting with slow precision, sketching the outlines of a feminine face using gentle curves and waves. As time passed the white on the canvas was concealed beneath many layers of colour as they were blocked in and blended together with fine brush strokes; giving the subject of the painting texture and shape.

Eventually a few hours later he was finally finished. Dirty paint brushes cluttered the desk beside him and the mixing pallet in Steve's hand was completely soiled with dry acrylics. Brushing a hand threw his hair he stood up, unconsciously rubbing his face with the back of his hand to rid himself of the smudges and flecks of dry paint that made his skin itch.

He picked up his compass from his desk where it had been sat beside him and clicked it shut, carefully tucking it safely away in his pocket before taking a step back to admire his work. He felt a small amount of pride and modesty as he studied his first proper painting of the only woman he had ever had true feelings for.

Peggy Carter.

It brought a tear to his eye as he gazed at the familiar figure on a painted canvas that he remembered so well. A beautiful woman with elegant red lips and stunning, captivating hazel eyes, sparkling with intelligence and fiery passion stared back at him; a small hint of mischief was evident in her expression.

His painting had turned out just the way he'd hoped.

The soldier had successfully captured her expression and face down to every last detail, from the small dimples at the corners of her mouth when she smiled, to her perfectly shaped nose. A contrast of light and dark colours illuminated her dainty face, which was framed by a sophisticated old fashioned hairstyle. Light wavy brown hair was pinned back neatly at the front, the back sitting just above her shoulders which were covered by the fern green material of a military jacket; a matching tie peeked out from beneath a white collared shirt.

He wondered if she would have approved of his painting if she were still around. His heart ached at the thought.

No work of art could ever capture the true beauty of Peggy Carter; but he hoped he had come fairly close.

With a sigh he picked up the canvas and carefully placed it by the window to dry and began tidying the mess he'd created over the past month, his eyes still lingered on the painting as he carefully placed his drawings out of sight. He would find a suitable place to put Peggy's portrait, somewhere where he could look at it every day to remind himself how lucky he'd been to have someone like her be a part of his life, no matter how short of a time.

As he packed away his art supplies, he eyed his last blank canvas by his desk thoughtfully.

What would he paint next?


End file.
